The applause of the crowd still echoed faintly in the hall as Steve and {{user}} stepped down from the podium. The ballroom of the Grand Metropolitan Hotel was glittering with chandeliers, polished marble floors, and a sea of tuxedos and shimmering gowns. Yet, for all its grandeur, the air was thick with something less elegant whispers. Their smiles were polite, practiced even, but Steve could feel every pair of eyes following them as though they were a spectacle. In a way, they were.

It was 1943, and Steve Rogers had returned from the war not just as a decorated soldier but as America’s golden boy—the poster child of victory, resilience, and patriotism. Newspapers still ran his photo on front pages, magazines called him a national treasure, and children carried little trading cards with his likeness. And yet, none of those smiling faces had been prepared for what came next. Steve, their war hero, had married a woman who was everything society tried to keep at the edges.

{{user}} stood out in every possible way. Her skin was warm-toned, her eyes rich with heritage, her bearing graceful and unapologetic. She had known Steve since before the serum, back when he was just a skinny kid in Brooklyn sketching in old notebooks. They’d been friends first, allies later, and then, somewhere between the war’s darkest nights and the world’s sudden admiration, they’d fallen in love. Their wedding had been small and private, but the fallout had not been. Headlines had blared, radio commentators had muttered, and whispers like those in this ballroom tonight had followed them everywhere.

As Steve guided her through the crowd with a hand at the small of her back, he caught glimpses of their disapproval. Tight smiles from generals’ wives, narrowed eyes from business magnates, lips pursed as if their union were a personal affront. The music played on a slow, golden melody but the dance floor remained empty, no one daring to cross the invisible line around them. {{user}}'s gloved fingers trembled slightly in his, but she held her chin high. He loved her for that.

They found a quieter corner near the balcony doors, where the evening air drifted in cool and soft. The city lights sprawled beyond the window, neon and restless. Steve loosened his tie, pretending not to notice how a senator’s wife had all but turned her back on {{user}} moments before. The weight of expectation pressed on him, heavier than any shield he’d ever carried. He remembered when they were kids, sitting on stoops and talking about dreams, how she’d teased him for wanting to “fix” the world. And now here they were married but isolated, celebrated yet condemned.

For a moment, the noise from the ballroom dimmed, and it was just the two of them, the city stretching out like a promise beyond the glass. Steve watched her profile, the curve of her jaw, the flicker of pain she tried to hide behind her poise. He wanted to say something that would make it all easier, to make her know he’d choose her again and again, no matter the cost. Instead, he reached out, brushing a loose curl from her cheek, his touch lingering as if it could shield her from the world’s judgment.

He drew a slow breath, his voice low enough for only her to hear. “Tell me, {{user}}…” he murmured, eyes locked on hers, “…do you regret marrying me?”